Try As You Might
by xnessuno
Summary: I'm really bad at summaries. A girl ends up in Florence, Italy after some odd events. Rating might change later. My first story, so help me out. Any feedback is good.
1. Chapter 1

Idiot, idiot, IDIOT. I don't think anyone could be as stupid as me. Give me a situation, and it's a sure thing that I'll make it even worse than it already is. I can guarantee it. Am I proud of it? Obviously not, especially when you're told to leave your friend's house because you decided that it was perfectly fine to interject in the middle of an argument with her parents. I was only trying to help, too. But apparently, saying "It was actually my fault, Mrs. Drew" is unacceptable.

But what makes it worse is that it's nearly ten at night, she lives in a secluded – not to mention sketchy - area of our tiny town, and I was supposed to sleep over. Walking with an overnight bag full of my clothes and my laptop, with some money and my phone in my pockets, isn't reassuring. It feels like a million eyes are following me but I can't see anyone through their darkened blinds.

"Just run if someone approaches you," I whisper to myself. A dog barks loudly from behind a chainlink fence and I squeal, jumping back. It slams against the fence and growls like he's ready to GO, like he's ready to kill me. And I start RUNNING. "Dogs are fucking scary now," I whimper, nearly tripping over a block of cement that was raised up over the years because of overgrown tree roots. "What happened to cute and cuddly?"

For awhile, I jog in absolute silence. Even if I'm jostling and jingling left and right, drawing more attention than I did before, it's kind of comforting knowing that I did track in middle school so I could outrun some of these guys EASY. But the silence ruins it. I mean, even the dogs have stopped barking. The voices and sounds coming from TV sets that were muffled by the walls disappear. Not even the cheap streetlights make loud buzzing noises because the bulbs hadn't been replaced in 5 years. I can't hear a thing except for my own even breathing, the shuffle of my feet on the fround, and the noises my bags make.

And something feels wrong.

It happens so suddenly. I don't even know what happens. I can barely make out the sound of a small engine running before I'm on the ground, breaking into breathy sobs and clutching at my thigh. It felt like it was broken, and the wind was knocked out fo me, and I could vaguely make out the shape of a motorcycle circling around. Another joins in, and I'm trying so hard to stand up, looking behind me at the alley that stretched out into the opposite side of the neighborhood. If I could get up and try to run as best as I could, maybe a broken leg would be the worst of my damage. If I couldn't run, I would have to give up everything on me that was worth money.

Something starts buzzing. At first it seems like the streetlights springing to life, or the engine revving down because the guy was kicking his brakes beside the curb to my left. He removes his helmet, and I can't make him out. But I can't make anything out. My vision goes in and out, fuzzy and uneven, and my breathing returns only to disappear again. My mind feels like it's shaking; the pain in my leg was nothing compared to this. It's like everything is being ripped apart from the inside until all I can see is white, with no way to tell if my eyes are opened or closed, the frantic voice of the motorcyclist calling out to his friend.

"Dude," he screeches, his voice going up like a little girl's, "Ben, dude, she's gone. She's fucking gone. She just fucking LEFT."

"She probably ran, asshole," another calmer voice pipes up. "Better for us, right? She probably thought we intentionally hit her. You need to stop doing all of those tricks, man."

"Shut up about the tricks! She didn't just leave, she… she disappeared. She didn't get up, it's like she just slipped away into thin air."

Laughing. It echoes in my mind until it gets fuzzy, distant, like a really crappy quality song you didn't download from iTunes and synced to your iPod at the last second and end up totally disappointed in the car while you listen to it. I sit there in this weird white light, and I'm convinced I'm dead. Things start splitting like atoms in a 7th grade science project, and the laughter fades away completely. I can blink, flex my fingers, and then It feels like I'm shoved underwater. I AM underwater. I thrash and punch and the foul taste of dirt is in my mouth, someone grappling at my shirt. And then nothing.

"L'hai trovato nel fiume?" A woman's soft voice, deepened slightly with age, and a cool hand pressed against my forehead.

"Si," a man responds, low and soft, like they were sharing secrets. "Ha iniziato galleggiante fino in fondo, e quando ho colomba in dopo di lei, ha iniziato a tirare pugni e calci contro di me."

A hum. "E dei suoi vestiti? Sono strani, nella migliore delle ipotesi. Deve essere da qualche strana. Povera ragazza. Pensi che saltò giù il Ponte Vecchio?"  
>Silence. For so long, I want to open my eyes, or at least try to. My lungs feel like they're collapsing and it still feels like waves are crashing against my ears when the woman finally receives an answer. "No. E 'stato come apparsa dal cielo..."<p>

Sigh. "Oh, bene. Forse, si spera, lei si ricorderà quello che è successo a lei. Venite, i bambini potrebbero essere chiedendo cosa è successo. Federico è sicuramente sveglio," the woman says, her voice louder now. I can only listen as they leave me alone, the soft creak of a door and the padding of their footsteps echoing in my sore ears.

...where was I?

Awake. Awake. Finally. My eyes are sore, but I need to open them, and I do. Everything is covered in the squiggles that come into view when you rub your eyes too hard, multicolored and evading being directly seen. I groan loudly, hearing my gravelly voice, and let my head roll to the side. Shuffling my legs in my sheets, I immediately think I'm in the hospital, and everything was just a dream. But I open my eyes again, and I don't see the sterile hospital equipment. No fluorescent lights, no pock-marked ceilings that looked like they came out of an elementary school portable classroom, no chairs for visitors and someone from my family, probably my mother, constantly hovering over me.

No, what I see instead is darkly colored furniture. A heavy bedside table with stubby candles all over it, that looked like it could kill a man from its weight alone. A vanity against the wall, shiny and dark brown, with a low bench facing the mirror. Next to that is a door, wood nearly black. I flip my head tiredly to the side. A large window is covered by heavy red curtains. And sprawled on a sofa beside the window is a teenage boy... or a guy in his early twenties, at least, arm dangling off the side. The sofa looked like it should have been in a museum.

Actually, this entire house looked like it could BE the museum.

I swing my legs down, cringing at the sharp pain in my thigh. So I wasn't dreaming. I hobble towards the door, taking note of the thick but comfortbale nightgown that fell WELL past my knees. Clearly whoever found me in the water valued decency... Oh, God, if one of those scary polygamist cults found me, I am going to die...

"Hello?" I call. I sound so scratchy, like I was about to cough up a hairball. Reaching out for a gold doorknob, I grasp at it for balance, leaning carefully against the vanity to my right so it didn't press against my thigh too painfully. I pull the door open slowly, peeking out into a bright hallway. "Is anyone home?"

I lean against the deep red walls, passing by doors that my hand glided over like marble. Passing by a window, I have to squint hard, the afternoon light too bright for me. Shit, I wonder how long I was out. Maybe it's been years... Speaking of, though, who changed me into this dress? I hope it was the woman from earlier.

"Anyone?" I sigh, reaching a corner. In front of me, the hall goes on, but there was a huge staircase. I shuffle towards it, taking the steps one at a time. The lower I get, the louder voices become, soft female mutters and a little boy, a deeper but still boyish voice coming after it. They chatter familiarly in Italian. Italy... How did I get to Italy?

A dark head peeks out. Tan skin, brown hair, hazel eyes. A teenage boy, maybe around one of my brothers' ages, widens his eyes at the sight of me, and widens the door into a little foyer wider. He reaches out with an upturned palm, all gentlemanly, and I stop as he calls out to his mother, "Oh, mamma, è sveglia adesso!"

I stand there with my arms crossed over my chest, licking at chapped lips with a dry tongue, and offer a lame smile at the family in front of me, with their dark hair and their tanned skin, their dresses and clothes making them look like they were actors or Renaissance enthusiasts. Whoever, whatever they were, they seem shocked at my... brazenness, and the fact I was finally awake. Which makes me assume I was sleeping for awhile...

"Come ti senti?" the woman asks me. She was the woman from earlier most definitely, her voice the same soothing tone.  
>"Buona. Voglio dire ... Buono considerando Non ho idea di dove mi trovo," I answer with a little hesitation. My words tangle together and sound awkwardly accented, heavily influenced by my Brooklyn accent getting mixed up with it. Ugh...<br>"Siete a Firenze, il miele. Così si parla italiano?" Ah. Florence. So that's why their dialect sounds so weird to me.  
>"Un po '. Io non sono fluente. Sembra come se fossi ma sono solo la metà e io non lo parlo molto spesso intorno alla mia famiglia."<br>"Ah. Forse si dovrebbe tornare a letto. Verrò in un po ', ma non sono molto decenti in questo momento, eh?" She nods at the young girl on the couch, maybe around my age, a little younger, and scowls at her son. I turn my head in enough time to see the perverted smile playing on his face, and cover myself more tightly. Clearly I wasn't in the right place, not anymore. I could walk around at home in booty shorts and half a tanktop and this wouldn't have happened.

I follow the girl up the stairs, sucking up my pain. She walks so gracefully, like she's gliding on air. I could never walk like that. God, I really must have gone through some freaky Star Trek wormhole. There is no possible way that this family is real. Maybe I've gone into a coma and this has become my life. Maybe I've been on life support for 4 years.

Or maybe I'm just dreaming.

She leads me to a room just off the stairs, which is definitely her bedroom. A few dresses are draped over a changing screen and a high-backed chair, a huge, comfortable-looking bed sitting in the center of the room. She nearly shoves me down onto the bed, and I gladly sink into it, feeling my thigh kind of starting to pulse every now and then.

"Hai bisogno di un vestito, sì?" she questions, marching towards a closet. Do I need a dress... yep. "Posso aiutare in questo. Hai dormito per una settimana, lo sai. Noi tutti chiedevo se tu fossi morto. L'unica persona che si è reagito a Federico, mio fratello. Che entusiasta mio padre. Lui è molto confuso su di te, perché si è tentato di combattere contro di lui spegne quando stava cercando di salvarti. Non sei la prima persona che ha tirato fuori da un fiume, sia. Tirò fuori il Magnifico stesso! Forse si finirà così grande ... pensi così, Caterina?"

I furrow my brows. Caterina is my name in Italian, the name my parents gave me. I don't remember telling anyone that, but then again, she said I talked to her brother. Federico... he must have been the guy sleeping on the couch. And Il Magnifico... The Magnificent. She was definitely talking about one of those Medici guys. Lorenzo de Medici, his name was... I think... if I remember my seventh grade history class right.

"Uh, yeah," I nod, then shake my head. "I mean, si. Si."

She pops out, holding a silky, light blue dress out in front of her. "Sono Claudia, tra l'altro. Claudia Auditore. E credo che questo colore sarebbe bello con la pelle pallida, sì? Bisogna guardare bello, dopo tutto. Stai finalmente andare a pranzo con noi. Papa parlerà con voi."

At first, I nod at what she's saying, agreeing with it without truly hearing. But it settles in. Dining with the family. Her father will finally talk to me. My eyes widen like Ezio's did and my dry mouth feels even dryer. Her fucking FATHER, the man who saved my life. God forbid I screw this up.


	2. Chapter 2

**ugh, I didn't include any translations in the last chapter. I'm really sorry for that, but now I'm typing it all in English, except for a few phrases, and translations will be provided for those. D: really sorry about the last chapter. This one's kind of EHH but I wrote like 3 chapters for this and I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE FILE THEY WERE IN. But anyway, here it is, and I'm probably gonna do a double update today because I'm currently halfway through the 3rd chapter. R&R~**

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><p>Claudia shows no mercy when combing my hair. She pulls her heavy ivory comb through all the snarls and tangles in my curls like it doesn't hurt, not at all. I cringe through it and try to keep my neck straight and my head steady, because if I let them give out under the painful tugs, she shushed at me, more like a mother than a teenage girl. She's serious business about everything fashionable, too, already babbling to me about what'll match my dress and what else we should do with my hair. Not much has changed over the years, clearly.<p>

"How old are you, anyway?" Claudia asks me as she sets the comb down on her vanity, running her fingers through my untangled hair. "It's hard to tell. I'm fourteen."

I blink, comparing the two of us in the mirror. She had a round face, all cherubic and rosy-cheeked, and she looked a little younger than fourteen. I'm fifteen, and I look way older when next to her, like I'm her older sister by ten years. "I turned fifteen last month," I answer her. "So I'm really not much older than you,"

"Hm," she frowns. Within minutes she's bustling around her room again, disappearing into her closet. I switch from the chair of her vanity to the comfort of her bed again, lying on my stomach with my arms and legs spread like a seastar. She keeps shifting between the shelves, muttering to herself, fingering through the pairs of shoes she has before yelling out, "What color shoes do you want to wear, Caterina?"

"Does it really matter?" …is anyone even going to SEE my shoes under all the skirts?

"It DOES. Things have to match. Not matching is like wearing black shoes with your wedding gown. It would not make sense at all." Claudia pops out after those words, eyes narrowed and scrutinize me. "Are you insane?"

I bite my lip. We'd be in here for awhile.

* * *

><p>I ATTEMPT to breathe, following Claudia through her family's home while she chatters about her tutoring and girls in Florence and little things about herself. After our several disagreements about what I was going to wear, she ended up matching the blue dress she picked out for me with shoes nearly the exactly same shade. Somehow, even though her feet looked like they should be on an elf rather than her, her shoes fit me just fine. She shoved me behind the changing screen, and I coped with changing into the underclothes she provided me with well enough, but when it came down to the corset, I was like a fish out of water. She practically had to pin me to the wall and lace it up to the VERY top, tying it off with a satisfied smile, then slipping the actual dress over me and lacing it with nimble and experienced fingers.<p>

"Supper isn't for a few hours," Claudia remarks to me as we turn a corner, entering a little shaded balcony, "so I apologize if you're hungry."

And thirsty. Horribly goddamned thirsty. It feels like my throat is closing up and my tongue is swollen, but I don't want to seem like some selfish girl, so I settle on one of the sofas arranged on the balcony. It's called a loggia, and I'm pretty proud of myself for even remembering that, thanks to my HGTV obsessed mother. Claudia kisses her mother on the cheek, taking a seat beside her, and Maria looks up from the small shirt she was mending, probably belonging to the youngest, Petruccio, who I actually had yet to see. Maria looks up at me, smiles, and all I can give her is a lame little lift of the corner of my mouth.

"So, Caterina, where are you from?" she asks, looking up for a quick second. "We all assume that you're from one of the northern countries, maybe Spain. Your skin is very fair, though, so I doubt that."

Where I'm from… "England," I instinctively blurt out, and wonder if there's a word in Italian for England, hoping that they understand me.

"Ah," she nods. "My husband has been there. It's a good thing you speak Italian; he can't speak your native tongue very well."

I nod, starting to chew on my thumbnail. It's like she's interrogating me, but subtly. Or maybe I'm just naturally overly paranoid.

"I mended your clothes while you were sleeping, by the way, if you would be more comfortable wearing those after that dress. And Giovanni stored all of your bags away under your bed. It wasn't looked through, so you can rest assured. Besides, it would have been impossible for any of us to figure out how to get them open. They had such odd mechanisms."

Zippers. They're fairly easy to open, but I guess to these people, they're the most complicated thing since sliced bread… I sigh in relief, thinking of the skinny jeans and plain t-shirt I'd been wearing when I was walking home from my friend's house… and the pajamas I packed into the bag. The second pair of clothes I intended to wear the next day was buried underneath it. Maybe I could get away with wearing them. Maybe I could get away with wearing pants while I was here. I watch as she finishes her work, folding up the shirt and placing it neatly beside her, storing away the extra thead and her needle, and looking up at me expectantly.

"Thank you," I finally respond. She smiles, nodding, and I look out into their garden below. It has well tended pushes, small patches of flowers, little blossoms dangling off of the low and tiny trees. Two stone paths intersect, where a table sits on a rectangular space, and the longer of the two paths runs up into a fountain, where a cherub of a little angel sputters out water. It's nice, not to mention it smells ridiculously good. The family was obviously rich, if their house wasn't enough of a dead giveaway.

What does their father do, I wonder…

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><p>Giovanni Auditore is an intimidating man. While he's welcoming and open and perfectly respectful and friendly, there's something about him that makes me want to shrivel into a corner and hope he doesn't notice me ever again. His children and wife either don't notice it or don't care. He's clearly loving with them, and it seems like all four of his kids are his pride and joy, so I'm guessing I'm confusing my respect with intimidation, or the first impression I have of him is immediate intimidation. People say it takes 29 times to change a first impression. It would definitely take an entire 29 times for me.<p>

Supper has been fine for the past half an hour or so. It's straightup Italian, all the courses and everything. All I've been able to eat are olives and arancini, a Sicilian appetizer that my grandma makes all the time, plucking them out of their bowls every now and then while everyone else is familiar and talking and teasing, Maria and Giovanni presiding over their children looking like the proud parents they should be. It almost feels like I'm not there anymore. The family is so close and I'm the guest that really shouldn't be here.

The moment Giovanni lifts his wine glass my eyes flick towards him. I don't know why, but it seems to encourage him to finally make conversation, and he raises his brows in acknowledgement, setting the glass down in front of him with a little clunk.

"So," he starts, silencing all of his children and drawing eyes in our direction, "Caterina. My wife tells me you're from England."

I nod. "I am."

"How did you end up here?"

"Floating in a river?"

He chuckles a bit but everyone gives nervous bursts of laughter. They all probably thought I was a suicidal maniac that flung myself off a bridge. "Yes," he finally nods. "How did you make your way to Italy and end up in a river."

I blink. Time to lie.

"My family's been dead for 2 years. Since then I've been living with my father's sister," I start. I'm actually really good at lying, not that I'm proud, but it's a good skill to have around. Most people believe every little word I spurt out of my mouth. "I felt like a burden when they started hitting financial problems so I left. I was able to pay for passage on a small boat and since then I've been working my way down until maybe I reached Sicily or Naples." But why did I end up in a river…. I purse my lips, coming up with the fastest lie. Exhaustion. "I didn't sleep for a day and a half when I reached Florence. I was walking across the bridge and all I remember was leaning against the wall and closing my eyes for a moment, so I toppled in. If you hadn't been there, Signore, I would have been sleeping at the bottom."

"You thrashed, though," he remarks, skepticism on his features, while everyone else believed me. "You must have been sleeping violently."

"Well, I DID awaken for a moment. I felt someone grappling for me, and that was clearly you." I shrug, giving a little smile. "And now, here I am. Wearing a silk dress and dining with you fine people."

They all smile but Giovanni looks disbelieving, like he doesn't entirely believe what I said, only a fraction of it. I turn away quickly, hoping that he doesn't see any of the guilt lurking in my eyes, and reach nonchalantly for more olives as the family maid, Annetta, begins to clear the tables to replace it all with the main course.

As Annetta brings out all the sausage and peppers and veal and pasta, I sit in my little bubble of silence, watching everyone around me. Claudia told me all of her brothers' names while she argued with me about shoes, and it isn't very hard to pick them out. Ezio and Federico are the loudest, and obviously two peas in a pod, naturally brotherly, but anyone can see that Ezio worships the ground the older walks on. Ezio teases Claudia more, and he occasionally earns a nudge to the ribs from Federico for what he says, so it's clear the oldest Auditore keeps them in order when their parents don't. Claudia sits beside me, and I finally notice that I'm sandwiched between Maria and Claudia. She's more quiet, but doesn't hide her girlish laughter when her brothers continue with their idiotic antics, looking to have a good time, clearly. Petruccio, the sickly, youngest Auditore child, sits with a sweet smile on his face. He's pale, and it looks like his hands are trembling a bit.

Federico reaches over then, giving an affectionate ruffle of his brother's hair, saying something to him low in his ear. The boy shakes his head, brows lowered, and Federico nods, giving him a pat to the back. He looks up, and for a second, I realize what a creeper I am, looking at their brotherly moment like some stalker. He chews his food slower, just staring at me for a moment, but the corner of his mouth lips up, noticing my sudden embarrassment from being caught… well, creeping.

"You're a quiet one," Ezio says at that moment, through a mouthful of pasta he just forked into his mouth. He slaps at Federico's chest, nodding at me. "Eh? She's shy. That's it, isn't it? You're just intimidated by our devastating beauty?"

I smile, shaking my head. "I just didn't want to burst into the conversation, is all."

"No, the more the merrier." He waves at me as if ushering me over. "Come on, we don't bite."

I chew on my lip. I WOULD need to make friends while I'm here.

* * *

><p>"You should be careful about my brothers, you know."<p>

I look up at Claudia, who combs through her surprisingly waist-long locks, running her fingers through the chestnut waves slowly. Her hazel eyes are clouded up, secretive, so it's impossible to see the reason for her random words. We were sitting in complete silence, while she prepared for bed, and I sat on top of her bed, running my fingers in awe over the smooth texture of the nightgown she let me borrow.

I furrow my brows, trying to think of a reply. At dinner her brothers were perfectly friendly. Even if Ezio always talked through a mouthful of food, and he and Federico had all their inside jokes, they seemed just fine, like normal, rowdy teenage boys in the comfort of their own home. But she starts looking at me more sincerely, eyes hardening, trying to get a message across to me that I couldn't really understand.

"What's so bad about them?" I finally say. "Do they murder people for fun?"

"They love wine and pretty girls," she says, exchanging her brush for a jar of off-white cream. As soon as she takes off the cap I cringe, but she notices nothing, continuing talking. "Obviously, since my father is very willing to let you stay here, they'll try to be as kind and… just as welcoming to you. But you're staying with us. You're easily accessible." She frowns, beginning to smear the cream over her tan complexion. "Ezio is going to be far more brave about it. Federico is smarter. I'm just suggesting that you be careful… as a friend."  
>I lick my lips. She was their sister; she knew them best. Not to mention she could have plenty of friends that were tricked by one of the brothers.<p>

"Alright," I mumble. As a friend. Maybe they were the only reason she was my friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Double update because I have so much time to kill. I liked this chapter, idk.**

**Translations: **

**duomo - cathedral**

**the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore is the cathedral in Florence.**

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><p>"Do you want to go into town with me?"<p>

I lift my head from my pillows, looking up at Claudia. She's fully dressed, in a gown that wasn't as fine as the one she was wearing the day before, but still ridiculously nice. I wonder what time it is, and sit up, scratching at my tangled hair.

Into town. Florence. Last night, after my talk with Claudia, I fell into a restless cycle of redundant thoughts. Not about her brothers, but just about where I was. I narrowed it all down, created a complicated net in my mind and searched for the answer that didn't seem so… insane. All I was able to come up with was that Claudia and her entire family were acting, I was trapped in a 24/7 Renaissance fair, I've fallen into a coma and they're all figments of my imagination, or that I've fallen back in time through some freak accident.

Of course, there's, you know, the fact that time travel is completely impossible, unless the government is hiding it away from everyone. So, as for now, I'm leaning towards a coma, letting my conscience lead me through this as if I'm actually alive. A little part of me wants to think that I've bent the rules and somehow found a weird wormhole, completely by accident. But I'll never really know unless I can hear the people talking, and most importantly, be able to see. Seeing is believing, isn't it?

I look towards the heavy curtains, slipping out of the thin sheet tangled around my legs, nearly tripping over the heavy coverlet that I kicked off last night. I shuffle towards the thick red curtains, reaching out hesitantly and pulling it back, expecting a brick wall, or pure black. But no. I look across at the house across from the Auditore's, and down below, to the alley. It's a little dark, but the farther I look down, the brighter it gets, until the alley breaks out into the street, and I can see the sunlit city, the voices of actual humans, and trees, and more buildings.

"Alright."

She smiles and nods. "Do you want Annetta to come and dress you, or are you going to wear those clothes my mother was talking about yesterday?"

"My own clothes, thank you."

She leaves me alone then, closing the door behind me. With the windows open, a little light spills in, and I just stand there, looking at the shadow I cast. That's not my imagination. That's not my conscience. I lift my arm, and look down at the shadow. A little shimmery outline, the flimsy, billowy sleeve of my dress, surrounds the black shadow of my arm. That can't be conjured from memory if I've never worn a dress like this.

It scares me and thrills me at the same time. Kneeling down, I try to shake off the plunge in my stomach and the pace of my heart. I pull out my bags, a plain black overnight bag and my grey Jansport backpack. I unzip the black bag, pulling out my jeans and a t-shirt. I'd get looks but at least I'd be comfortable, and with my current discovery, that I somehow fell into the Renaissance, the very first thing I would be needing is comfort.

I slip out of the nightgown, and change into all my clothes. My Converse are still under the bed, and I pull them out, tying the checkered laces and standing up. I fight off the urge to look in the mirror, to feel like I never left, and walk out. I take my time down the stairs, and straight ahead is the front door. Claudia dawdles in front of it with Federico, slapping at her brother's arm, face flushed while he blocks her slaps and laughs.

"Oh," Claudia remarks, sizing up my outfit. "Is that how everyone dresses in England?"

It must have looked weird to her, the cutoff of the shoulder because it was one of those typical discount shirts from Forever 21 for $10, the strap of my bra and tanktop overlapping one another, my black jeans, the black Converse.

"This is how I dress," I shrug. Claudia manages a smile, a smile that came two seconds late, because my pants and shirt were definitely not the breeches that her brothers wore, that she must have been expecting.

Claudia turns on her heel and opens the door. At first, I blink, shuffling into the courtyard of their home. It was small and square and stone, with a wrought-iron archway leading out into the street. Federico and Claudia walk out without a care, used to the city, the place they lived in, a place they were familiar with like I was with New York. I take slower footsteps, taking the time to admire everything.

Chattering groups of people walk by, and they're everywhere, walking through the city like NOBODY did for leisure in my time. A doctor stands with his cart under the shade of a tree, waving around a jar and yelling about remedies for a woman's monthlies, wearing one of those bird masks that makeshift doctors wore during the Black Plague. Shops and houses look alike, the only difference being signs in the windows of shops and dangling from hooks. But it's all beautiful. Everything is perfect, even if the foul smell of freshly emptied chamber pots faintly floats through the air. There are no skyscrapers that interrupt the skyline and reach up too high, no smog, and no litter.

"What are you doing, Caterina?"

I jerk towards the voice of Federico yelling for me, him and Claudia at least fifty feet ahead. I jog to catch up, and I finally notice the people giving me stares here and there. I don't really care after awhile, letting the siblings lead me through the city.

Claudia bustles along in front of us, on a mission, it seems like. We pass under archways and by stands of vendors who say that their wares are the best, not to buy what they have from anyone else. The stands are everywhere, whether they're in small clusters or big groups… just like the whores, apparently. I know that they call them courtesans in this era, and that they have more talents than the average prostitute, that they're meant to entertain in other ways BESIDES sex, but I'm still going to call them whores.

It makes no sense to me that people are giving me dirtier looks than them. These girls' breasts are popping out left and right, their skimpy dresses pushing them up and out and so tightly together it's like they're glued. Their dresses are either the average length and slit up the thigh, or the front is entirely cut out, a tiny pair of shorts blocking anything from being seen. But God, they're really pretty. They're beautiful, I'm not even lying. They're all ruby lips and rosy cheeks, their hair tied up in little buns, eyes smoky and their skin creamy. They hum and sigh and laugh seductively, earning whistles and dirty words from some men, and grapple at others. Including Federico.

One dark-haired girl, the prettiest of them, lazing under the shade of a nearby tree as we walk by, rises to her feet. Her shoes look like ballet slippers, laced up her legs in a baby pink, and tendrils of her shiny hair fall out of their buns. Her lips are played up in a sweet smile, but her eyes tell a different story, and she practically floats over, all long legs and perfect everything. She pulls at his arm, and he skids towards her, giving an odd smile, crossed between familiarity and nervousness. She whispers in his ear, in the shade, and the girls begin to circle him. They coo his name and toy with his hair and run their lacquered fingernails over his jaw, sway their hips, admire him like men admired them.

And I just stop, watching, wondering if he's slept with all of them. I look toward Claudia, who stops 20 feet ahead of me. She cocks her brows, silently asking me why I'd stopped, and her eyes swivel towards her brother. Exasperation takes over her pretty features and she waves me forward. I shuffle, joining her side, and we begin walking, leaving him behind.

"Does that happen often?" I murmur, narrowly dodging a small mule tugging a hay cart.

Claudia sighs, "You would be surprised. What did I say? He probably HAS slept with all of them, and I do not know their names, but I know the dark-haired girl. Simonetta Falcone. She's beautiful, isn't she? She loves my brothers."

My eyes widen. "They… they've BOTH slept with her?" She nods. "So they essentially share her? Like she's a piece of meat?"

"She is only a courtesan," Claudia shrugs. She stops to let her eyes rove over shiny red apples, sitting in crates in front of a short vendor whose head barely cleared over his high stand. She looks at me. "I did not elaborate much, did I?"

I shake my head, and we begin walking again, at a slower pace, until we reach a HUGE square in front of the cathedral in the city. I know what it's called, the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, because I had to do an intense project on it in fourth grade. I've been to big churches in Sicily, but never to a cathedral this big, a Renaissance cathedral. The dome is enormous, everything is so detailed, and I can't help but gawk, eyes widening at the side of the place.  
>"Of course the duomo has to be large," Claudia says with laughter in her voice, practically reading my mind. "It houses the rich and poor of Florence during high and low mass. They have mass everyday, for the devout, and there are many devout people in this city. But never mind that now, let us find a place to sit for awhile, si?"<p>

She leads me towards a shaded, enclosed, grassy area, with a few benches sitting against the walls. It's pretty, bright flowers sprouting despite the lack of sun, and Claudia settles herself on the bench beside the arched entrance, and pats the space beside her. I join her on the cool stone.

"About my brothers," she sighs, plucking invisible specks off of her skirts. "They are very smart, in terms of women. It started with Federico, and he taught Ezio everything he knew. Girls fall for their tricks left and right. And some of them have no self respect to the point that they're shared between the two of them, but they never care about them. The only girl Ezio cares about is Cristina, Vespucci. La Bella. The beautiful one. He wouldn't DARE let Federico touch her and Federico would never try. And Federico…" She stops and sighs, rubbing her temples.

"There was a point in time when Simonetta wasn't a courtesan. She was just a simple girl with a dead mother, no siblings, and a drunk of a father. She was sweet but she was damaged, and she whored around with some boys at taverns. She's beautiful, she can get any man she WANTS. But Federico was fifteen and she was sixteen when she just randomly chose him. Then, he was just a bumbling, too-tall virgin. But she liked him. It's like she nurtured him into the womanizer he is today, you know?

"But she was always his favorite. Nobody knew about her for two years until I was with Annetta in the market, and I saw them together, somewhere down the road. And he saw me, and he told me every little thing, and he wasn't ashamed, not in the least. He really did care about her. But when her father died, she was out of money. The house she lived in was a pigsty. Any help Federico offered her was declined because she's a stupid girl. She doesn't have pride, she just didn't want help. It makes no sense to anyone.

"So she became a courtesan. A popular one, at that. She's the most lusted after whore in this city, while Cristina is the most lusted after woman. Federico and Ezio sat on opposite sides of the scale for awhile, and then Simonetta took a turn. She became conceited and confused and she's lost her mind, even he knows it. Federico still went to her every now and then, just to see if she'd changed, if she was alright again, but she never did change. It got worse. She was swallowed up by her life. To me, she was always a little scattered to begin with, but maybe he saw something else… Anyway. She threw herself at Ezio and now Federico hasn't touched her since, but I think that's why HE womanizes. Behind every womanizer is a girl that broke his heart, si?"

Claudia folds her hands on her lap, feeling content. "You know, I've never told anyone that," she says, giving me a peculiar look. "But I like you. I just want you to know that. Half of me is befriending you to protect you from my brothers but the other half finds you… I think you are good company."

I blink. I nod. Claudia released a mouthful like that at once and within minutes she's telling me that she thinks I'm good company…

"Well, come," she announces, rising from the bench. "I was going to take you to the tailor's, you know. But I don't think you're the dress type anymore… Are you? Hm. A dress would be useful for you, for dinners and such. What is your favorite color? Mine…"

I listen to her babble, following her to the tailor's. My mind is preoccupied, repeating everything she just told me, inhaling the clean scent of untouched fabric, as if that would help me process everything in a clearer way. She lets me wait in the front room, settled on a cushioned seat between two mannequins, silky dresses fit around a petite waist of wire and the low shoulders set around the shoulders made of clay. I sit for a long while, listening to the familiar banter between Claudia and the tailor – who is quite obviously homosexual, I might add.

Yay for Renaissance gays.

I don't know how long it's been when Federico passes by the window, on a search for me and his sister. His hands are in his pockets, and he takes his time, shuffling by, before peering into the tailor's. I try to squish deeper into the cushions, until my back is flattened against the walls, but he sees me, and strides in, slapping his palm against the wooden doorway with a large sigh. He nods at me, coming to sit beside me on the long seat.

"How long have you two been here?" he asks me, leaning back comfortably. I shrug, and he licks his lips, looking towards the door into the back room. "Is she mad at me?"

"Not at all."

I feel like my eyes are just telling him everything. It's nearly imperceptible, but his eyes flicker from a hazel similar to mine to a dark gold, and my eyes follow the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows nervously. He knows that I know something or that I'm judging him, but he says nothing, toying with a loose thread on the sleeve of his doublet.

I reach over and pluck it off quickly, as my mother always did, letting the thick red string float and twist down to the floor. A complete silence settles over us then, and I don't understand why. I feel bad for him, and I want to say something, to comfort him, but we're strangers, and I shouldn't even know what Claudia told me.

So the silence follows us home. As Claudia babbles on animatedly about the dress Teodoro, the tailor, had in mind for he. She nudged at me with smiling eyes and expected teasing from her brother, either being intentionally oblivious of the awkwardness or truly unknowing, but I think it's the former.

We enter the house in silence. We dine in silence. We go to bed in silence. And I can't help but feel it's kind of my fault.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TENSION~<strong>_ I'm gonna take it slow with Federico and Caterina and kind of ease it in. I hate it when stories get really into the plot by like the 4th chapter. NO ME GUSTA. Nor do I want to make Caterina really one-dimensional and Mary Sue. If I start taking it in that direction warn me, please. Anyhow, review :3


	4. Chapter 4

**SO UPDATE. Yay, for my grand total of probably 10 consistent readers. *confetti* This is the longest chapter I've written, and I kinda like it. It's starting to get a little Mary Sue but I'm taking care NOT to go in that direction. Just this chapter. Even then it's not THAT bad. I hope you guys like it :D**

**translations: capito - understand?**

* * *

><p>Everyday is the same. There is no variation, all of a sudden, like any trips into town or fun things were against the law. I wake up, I eat breakfast, I wait around for someone else to wake up, and things go on however they do, whether I'm easily beating Ezio at a game of chess that HE challenged ME to, or sitting on the loggia with Maria and Claudia, watching in awe that's slowly wearing off at how fast Maria can sew. The most remarkable thing to happen to me was me pitifully and miserably pricking my fingers while Claudia taught me how to sew.<p>

And Federico avoiding me like the plague.

I didn't think anything of it, at first. We rarely talked anyway. He isn't as sociable… or as perverted as Ezio, or it's to my understanding that he isn't. After Claudia told me everything about Simonetta, I really didn't care, only felt bad about Federico's discomfort about me. By the second night, I was perfectly fine, and supper went back to the usual – red faced laughter from what Ezio said mixed with the wine in our bloodstreams. But Federico was still unusually quiet. I didn't, I don't even know him that well, and he started acting alarmingly silent, only talking to Claudia and Ezio when I was responding to Annetta's question about whether or not I wanted more wine, or if I was too preoccupied with cutting up my food. And I took offense.

It didn't take me awhile to figure that it wasn't the fact he thought I knew something that made him avoid me. He was just ignoring and avoiding me, and only me. My entire existence was like a bubble cut out of his own, kicked to the side and dangling by a thread. It bothered me, even if I didn't exactly care much, and I really put some thought into it. Maybe the kid had a lot of skeletons in his closet besides his hooker lover. Maybe he knocked someone into the river the same night I fell in and he thought it was me. I still can't figure anything out, so I'm just going to believe that I'm causing whatever idiotic problems there are between us, just by inhaling the air we share.

So, either than my failed sewing attempts and pointless drama with the oldest Auditore child, my life goes along like calm waters. I float along, but the waves never get choppy, never swell. I sit inside all day, even if occasionally, Claudia makes trips into town without me, and Annetta heads to the market without asking for the assistance I offered her once or twice. I read, or I play chess, or I play childish games with Petruccio, and although that earns me bonus points with Maria and Giovanni, I can't handle any more hide and seek in their monstrous house. It's like searching for a BROKEN needle in a haystack, in all honesty.

All I want is to get out. For the past week I've been yearning for the REAL fresh air that doesn't come from my open window when I'm beating dead bugs off of the curtains and the mosquito net. I dawdle and spend my days eating the sweet cakes Annetta brings back from the bakery once a week, wondering how long it'll take me to get fat again after all my hard work to keep the weight off.

I highly doubted Ezio would be the one to offer to take me outside. For once in what seems like a lifetime, when I'm lying, tangled in my sheets with sticky crumbs on the corners of my mouth and I'm bloated from guzzling down nearly a gallon of water to pass the time, he stands over me, head upside down from my point of view, his brows cocked and eyes shining. His lips are lifted into what seems to be the signature smirk of all the Auditore children, one corner lifting higher than the other, full of mischief and guaranteeing a good time. It scares me.

"Hello," I sigh, rolling onto my stomach, giving a lame groan. "What brings you into my chamber of boredom?"

"Exactly that." He answers it so evenly, like he meant nothing and everything at once. I look up, and the smirk is still there.

"You're going to solve my boredom, then?" I ask. "Is that it?" He nods, shrugging his shoulders in a "why not?" kind of way. "And your partner in crime, your brother, isn't going to accompany us, right?"

"He wouldn't even volunteer." Ezio's eyes narrow curiously, wondering if his words offended me or not. "No offense, or…"

"Ah." I wave my hand, and tumble out of bed, stopping in front of the mirror to comb my fingers through my hair again, unwilling to show him my plastic paddle brush. They'd probably think I was a witch, with all my weird clothing. "What exactly did you have in mind to solve my boredom, though, Ezio? Getting me drunk in the afternoon…"

He chuckles. He's far more perverted than his brother, or maybe this is how they both act. I've learned to deal with the accidental brushing of my ass, the innuendos, but there are times that I'll have to tell him off. Like now, for example. If he really intends on getting me drunk, if he really thinks I'm that stupid, then he's an idiot, and I'm going to have to set him straight.

"I wouldn't do that. I just… intended to show you around town. Firenze is beautiful and it's to my understanding all you've seen of her is a tailor's shop and the cathedral." He pauses with a smirk. "And maybe stop for a glass of wine."

I sigh, but smile, nodding my agreement. "Fine. Any funny business, and expect a knee in the groin. Capito?"

"Capito."

* * *

><p>"The Ponte Vecchio," Ezio announces, stopping in front of a wide bridge that stretched over the river. "I figured I might as well take you to your technical entrance into Firenze first. "<p>

I try to play off my embarrassed blush, as if the lie I told them about sleeping on the side of the bridge was true. I look down over the edge, seeing the murky waters, blue and brown mixed together to make a foul-smelling and oddly colored green. Cringing, I remember that waste is/was dumped into the rivers and lakes of cities, to keep the city streets as clean as they could manage. I turn back to Ezio, and he's gawking at a pretty – no, a gorgeous girl some 50 yards away, on the other side of the bridge, with a blushing group of girls under the shade cast by a building. It takes me three seconds to figure out it's that Cristina girl Claudia told me about.

"Is that Cristina?" I still murmur, nudging his ribs, but still keeping my distance so she doesn't think I'm doing anything wrong. Nothing feels worse than knowing you're being cheated on; nothing hurts worse than seeing it, even if we aren't actually together.

"Who told you?" he murmurs, a boyish blush covering his cheeks.

"Claudia," I nod, shrugging. "She's pretty,"

"She's beautiful," he grins.

It's adorable. I nearly coo at the cuteness. Young love is doomed, or so they say, but it doesn't hurt to appreciate the adoration some young lovers have for one another. And it makes me think of Simonetta and Federico, the doom they encountered, the inevitable forking of their paths, and I damn near ruin my entire mood. I shake the thought from my head, turning my attention back to Cristina as inconspicuously as I can. She waves him over, biting her lip and blushing as girlishly as he blushes boyishly, like smitten little kids on the playground during Valentine's Day. He darts his eyes towards me, and I shrug.

"Go on."

"But I don't want to leave you unaccompanied," he frowns. It amazes me that he can be perverted and gentlemanly.

"Go, idiota. I can find my way back on my own."

H e arches a brow. "Are you really sure about that?"

"GO."

He shrugs and sets off towards Cristina, leaving me leaning against the side of the bridge. It's afternoon, we're in the richer district of Florence, from what I can see, and I'm surrounded by people. The odds of me being attacked, raped, or killed, seem to be very low. I push myself off of the stone supporting my weight, tracing my footsteps back to the Palazzo Auditore.

My camping trip during my time in Girl Scouts taught me to memorize things so I wouldn't get lost, like the shape of trees, or the markings that the troop slashed into the trunks. The only difference with this was the shops, the vendors. I remember passing by a bakery, smelling like the sweet cakes I ate only a few hours ago, a juggler who is apparently now walking on his hands, his balls set down in the gutter while he does flips and somersaults. I'm entranced by the city, looking through stalls at cute little tea sets, painted individually with adorable patterns, at the caged puppies yapping from behind their bars, cages weighed down with bricks so they couldn't move.

I eventually stumble into an entire market. I've read about this place, the Mercato Nuovo – the New Market. It was like the center of trade and commerce in Italy, next to Rome, but from what I've learned from Claudia, it's 1475, and Rome is still an absolute shithole. And this place is packed with people. It can't compare to the quiet fruit stands I went to with Annetta, a basket dangling from my arm. This place looked more like a zoo than anything else.

Persian rugs dangle from wooden beams that stretched across the entire square, colorful and thick. Baby tigers cry in their cages, sounding more like kittens than vicious killers, meowing for their mother that they were long since departed from. Three women argue over a shiny roll of patterned fabric, pointing fingers at each other and the vendor, who looks confused and willing to deal with ANY of them. Though you can still hear, and move, and do everything, it's unbelievable. This place is like the Costco of the Renaissance, with everything from fresh clay pots to turbans.

I break into it. I move between the stalls, stopping to run a finger over the smooth white china that's so common in my time and so rare in these. Venetian glass, Swedish wool, a different type of corset from England, looking more painful than the one Claudia dressed me in. I breathe in the different smells, something disgusting and sweet and sour all at once, like burnt cookies and perfect cinnamon buns mingled with the scent of the trash that still needs to be taken out. It pulls me in and I let it. It's so much more different than the city that surrounds it.

I kneel down in front of the cages of baby tigers, where a little boy and his older sister, maybe 13 or 14, gawk with a larger group of kids that keep their distance. The stall keeper applauds my bravery, or what he calls it, encouraging the kids to step forward. I tentatively poke a finger in, getting bit by toothless gums, earning more tiny cries. I stroke behind the ear of a white-and-black striped tiger, the fur all up and out and odd ends like a new born. It eventually purrs, nuzzling at me, and I grin, thinking of my bitchy fat cat at home, an enormous Maine coon and a Russian blue kitten that was practically half-dog. The kids come around then, cooing at the cuteness of the tiger, letting it toddle around in the circle they form on their knees, and I get up, beginning to roam again.

For awhile, it's in peace. But then I feel eyes following me. I don't care much for it, thinking maybe it's the gossiping mothers who thought I was a sick instigator for encouraging their children to get that close to a "wild beast" like a baby tiger, and move along. I feel plush animal skins that would drive PETA insane, admire dresses that look uncomfortable, but I still wouldn't complain wearing them, and gawk at a boy tending to a stall with who I'm assuming is his father, with blue eyes and black hair and the most perfect face I've ever seen in my life.

I give a little shriek when the beams above start shaking. Dust sprinkles down onto my hair and the people in the market, but they go on, only muttering soft swears under their breath about the noisy disruptions. I glance up, and see men, young and old, in caps and scarves, flats and breeches, torn shirts. They RUN on the beams, like it's the gymnastics competition during the Olympics, quick-footed and unbelievably nimble. I gawk, and they leap, some grasping onto rooftop edges and hauling themselves up, others into the market below, blending along with everyone else to become invisible. I see some of them snatch at various things from baskets - coins that slipped loose from pouches, trinkets, more coins from actual purses.

"Thieves," someone whispers from behind me, and I shriek again, clapping a hand over my mouth and whirlling around.

A boy. He's maybe my brother's age, in his late teens, a good five inches taller than me. He's cute in a boyish way, with his curly blonde hair sitting on top of his head in a short cut, his eyes a bright blue, but he isn't my type, and he comes off as creepy. Extremely creepy. The way he smiles at me makes me KNOW that he's the person who's been staring at me this entire time, tracking me down with their eyes, and I do NOT intend on talking to him for a long amount of time. But he, apparently, intends on following me.

"What's your name?" he asks me, tailing me while I try to find a big group of people to dash into and hopefully disappear in.

"Ariana," I lie. My sister's name.

"Mm, really? That's pretty…" he remarks, absentmindedly. "I'm Girolamo." I take a deep breath, damning the time that this guy, this Girolamo, showed up. Clearly he's done this before, stalking a teenage girl. I remember the combo Ariana herself taught me.

"Jab them in the throat and kick them in the balls," she'd said, shrugging her shoulders casually, as if she did it before. "They'll be in pain over their balls and on top of that, they won't be able to breathe for a few minutes."

Jab and kick. Jab and kick. Jab and kick. I repeat it in my mind like a stupid mantra, but it doesn't follow through. Not when we reach a darkened corner of the market leading into an alley, emerging into an empty street, only a few poorly dressed people making their way along. A few more guys, all around my brother's age, lean against the wall, and I don't do anything when I'm thrown in their direction. No screaming when they say the most horrible things I've ever heard said about me, when a hand creeps down to squeeze at my ass, when someone whispers low in my ear, hot and heavy and smelling like cheap wine. But most importantly, I don't jab and kick. It's pointless doing it to 7 guys.

I'm going to die. My immediate thought. They are going to rape me and kill me, but I'm not really alive, am I? This is my imagination. I should have thought that from the beginnning. This is going to be like Inception – if I'm killed I'm awoken from the dream. But then I remember limbo. Maybe I'll fall into some deeper recess of my conscience and emerge absolutely insane, come back to life with no memory of who I am or what I did.

"Stop," I finally manage weakly. "STOP."

For a second, they do stop. And burst out laughing. "Stop, she says," one laughs, as if I didn't JUST say that. "What a stupid girl. It'd be better if she was deaf and dumb like we thought. Don't give us a mouthful, girl, eh?"

Hands. They fumble with my shirt and my pants, pulling at me and shoving me around, each having their turn with my unbelievably complicated clothing for these standards. They curse and grunt, as if it's really a hard task, completely ignoring my shirt, now sitting off to the side, my undershirt wrapped around it, my bra still hooked around my body, and fumble with the buttons to my pants, the zipper. Large fingers that look like sausages have a go, then pale, slender, artist's fingers, and we're in the darkened alley again, my back pressed against the wall, somebody finally managing to figure out they need to pull the zipper DOWN.

Hands. A different pair. They reach out, as if beckoning for me, but I don't look up, eyes fixed on the scuffed rubber tips of my shoes. The group of boys look around at each other, and abruptly break out into loud, smelly laughter, their foul breath blowing into my face. I still stand there, arms crossed over my chest, jeans halfway down my thighs, and wonder who my failed savior is. A good try, but it isn't going to happen.

"You want us to stop, or you wanna join us?" Girolamo laughs. "You're welcome to join. But if you want to take her away? You aren't a knight, stronzo, my apologies." No response. Girolamo pulls a knife from his breeches, holding it in front of him. "You're trying to stop us, then? Come."

The same hands dash forward. If I had blinked I would have missed it. So quickly… a little jab to the throat, nimble fingers, and the same hands from before whirl Girolamo, slashing a cut across his chest, enough to make him bleed, but not enough to kill him. Girolamo cries out like a girl, clutching at his chest, quickly becoming darkened with his blood. The rest of the boys back off, a wave of silence passing through them.

"Fucking take her," Girolamo cries, stumbling back. I look up, from the corner of my eye, and he shakes his head, looking between me and whoever the hell just saved my ass. "To hell with you, Ariana. To hell with the both of you."

Silence. I lean against the wall. "Ariana?" I famliar voice suddenly says, flat and unmoving. "Well, Ariana, here's your shirt."

I look towards Federico. He still has the knife in his hands, dripping with Girolamo's blood, part of his skin hooked on the edge. He kneels down, plucking up my shirt and undershirt. His face is straight as he hands it to me, and I take it with trembling fingers, pulling my clothes on lamely. I straighten the crumpled clothes, looking up in time to catch Federico breaking the knife, slamming it against the side of a building and throwing the hilt far, dropping the blade under a loose stone and kicking the stone back into place.

I join his side, and he leads me home, as silent as when I'd found out about Simonetta. The only audible thing, really, is our footsteps, the noise that comes to surround us the deeper we venture into the city. Once we reach the cathedral, he looks at me. His eyes are still blank, his face straight, as if he didn't care about me when he'd just saved my life, maybe. Perhaps it was human nature. But human nature means sympathy.

"Where is Ezio?" he asks, looking away from me as we pass by the groups of people walking around us.  
>"I thought he left with you, Caterina."<p>

I shrug. "He meant to show me the city. Cristina was out and about so I told him he could leave me for her. I said I could find my way home. But I got lost, I got distracted, and I found the market."

He says nothing to that. We pass by the little shady enclosure where Claudia and I talked the week before, walk in absolute silence. My eyes drift towards the tailor's shop, where Claudia was meant to pick up her dress tomorrow, made from a new shipment of a light pink satin that she was absolutely in love with. We pass by the cracked open door, and we come across the tree.

The same courtesans circle it, gesturing with their hands, lips barely parted, sighing and giggling and beckoning for men and their money to come. Hair flows more freely, curls and waves, blonde and black, rustling with the wind and falling to their waist, seeming to outline their ridiculously womanly curves more than their dress already does. And Simonetta is there again, parting the sea of the girls around her, reaching out for Federico with the same grasping hands she had before. She encircles him, eyes cloudy and detached, the look I'd mistaken for infatuation before now clear to be…. An odd look of insanity and sanity, all at once, teetering on the fence but never truly choosing a side.

Those eyes, a deep brown, not just a plain color, but like chocolate, shifting like waves in her sockets, meet mine. Her chin comes to rest on Federico's shoulder, her words cutting short. Her lips are still parted as she sizes me up, looking me up and down, her fine brows drawing together, no lines forming in her cream skin. Something passes over her features, hidden and buried, but still there, something that men found unreadable but I saw EASILY.

Jealousy. I shake my head immediately, but her mind, her insane mind, settles on what she feels. I dash away, rudely pushing through a group of three women casually walking along. I make my way under archways and around groups, around trees, through nets of people gathered to watch a man juggle twenty coins at once, screaming their applause and dropping their own coins. I know that I'm getting close to the palazzo, can see the vaguely familiar houses and shops we passed by, but someone comes up beside me again.

"Go back to her, Federico," I scowl. "Ezio is with his girl, you can be with yours." He says nothing. "I can find my way home."

The corner of his lips lifts up. "Isn't that what you told Ezio?"


End file.
